we're not out of the woods yet, honey
by gustin puckerman
Summary: Maria and Steve find common ground as time wears on. ― Steve/Maria. Following Captain Hill Week on Tumblr.
1. Miscalculation

**this will follow the events of captain hill week 2014 hosted by f*ckyeahcaptainhill [on tumblr]. i don't know where this will lead, or if every chapter will be connected to one another. i just don't _know_ okay**.

...

**day one; _miscalculation_**.

She flicks a pen and draws a line.

A straight line. And it's long — longer than her hand expands from her wrist to the tip of her nail — but short enough that it doesn't terrify her. She tells herself that if she ought to love someone, to _care_, it will be in this amount. But she doesn't have to. Love. Care. All of those things, she mean. It's just a concept, a back-up plan.

There's a few moment in her career where she has to draw that line again, and mismatch it with the current situation. Just to remind her where to stop; because there's a limit, there always is, and Maria doesn't like breaking them.

The line gets fuzzy sometimes. (She cares too damn much for her own good.) And it gets blurry. Everything does. So she draws it time and time again. The line. To know where she's at, know where her mind is running through, keep herself in check. _Order_. Because when the world burns and collapses all around her, that is what she will have: a good ole order.

Or at least, that's what she'll prepare to have when the time comes.

It doesn't disappoint her. Setting this boundary. It gives her view on what she's supposed to do and what she's supposed to say in any given situation. Because this is who she is, or who she has trained herself to be, and it's goddamned comfortable even if everyone keeps reminding her how truly lonely she is, and dammit Hill, _don't you feel?_

(They don't get it. It's because she _feels_, she has these lines you know?)

It gets shaky eventually, like it's going out of control. It's the explosion afterwards, she blames, flicking the pen and drawing the line over and over again. Order. Control. It's messed-up. It's such a freaking huge mess that she doesn't even notice when his large figure looms over her.

She stops, and tilts her chin up. "Can I help you?"

_Rogers_, her mind goes, accessing to every SSR and SHIELD's Level 8 files Fury had forced her to read through, picking up information and abilities and weaknesses as her sharp blue eyes run over the white shirt and torn blue pants. His face is bruised, dirtied — which is understandable, because it's only been 48 hours since the Chitauri Attack and she isn't looking like a goddamned princess either — but there's a hint of so much more than just the nation's personal soldier, the white-blue-red mantle everyone so proudly holds him as.

He just looks tired. Handsome (that, she won't deny), but tired.

He looks normal.

She's miscalculated, she doesn't tell him that, setting the paper and pen and the lines he doesn't ask questions to on the table before getting up and facing the council. She doesn't know why he's there in the first place, why he shows up and sits across from her like they're _friends_ or something (they don't even _know_ each other), but he's gone when she comes out from the stupid meeting, and she doesn't know where he is.

He left the paper (the paper that she scratches with horrible lines because Coulson is dead and she miscalculates everything. _Everything_. The boundary. The control. The _order_—) and she doesn't know if she should be surprised finding the thing now doodled with a pair of clowns hanging from a trapeze, one of them holding a flower to the other.

She doesn't know what it _means_, doesn't fully acknowledge the scrawly _I'm sorry_ written at the bottom of the page instead of his signature, but she keeps the sketch.

Even until now.

(Because she may be miscalculating, but she figures it'll come in handy one day. Maybe.)

...


	2. Demons

**nope. still don't know what the heck is this thing. this one's set post-catws**.

...

**day two; _demons by imagine dragons_**.

Somehow, the lead tracks them to Chicago.

Steve can't remember how they meet up. Maybe they'd bumped into her, or maybe that she might've been waiting for them all along. (If she was, he wouldn't be all too surprised.) But he's not _frowning_ when he sees her; figuring another familiar face would've been nice. A trusted one is much better.

They stay, for a couple of days.

Sam likes Chicago. The city, the park, the people. It's nothing sort of crowded like New York, or way too heated like LA, or way too many soldiers lurking to get them like in Washington. It's just nice. And windy.

(Steve misses the wind.)

He doesn't know why she's _here_, why she would stay. He doesn't wholly mind it, of course. He's been with Sam for four months too long alone, chasing the ghost of Bucky, or glimpses of him, that is, and it's getting a little weary- this hiding and dodging-from-getting-identified-business. He figures they'd get a few days off; and Maria's not that bad once you get to know her, passing the cool Deputy Director facade she's known to keep up (especially now, since the title itself had been shed from her literally.)

(It reminds him, maybe he _should_ apologise for that.)

On the third night they're there, Sam excuses himself to go to a jazz club somewhere down town with a relaxed, delighted smile on his face, asks Steve if he wants to tag along. "Might be fun," Sam wiggles his brows when he flicks his tie, grabs a fancy hat, "Might meet some pretty ladies, if you know what I mean."

Also, to note, Sam's been talking with Natasha. A _lot_.

Steve shakes his head, refuses, and leans his waist back against the motel's old creaky make-up desk, raises his brow when Sam winks himself in the mirror, proud. "Have fun, though," he tells and Sam laughs, kicking his shoes.

"Don't mind if I do!"

She doesn't expect him for the night, he could tell, when he shows up bringing the little take-out from a nice little restaurant a block down; and he knows they both hadn't expected it when an hour later, they find themselves in a cemetery surrounded by old twigs and crop-cut leaves. He looks at her, she blinks up at him.

"Don't tell me it's weird, I know it is." She doesn't exactly _sigh_, but there's an impression of it, but Steve only nudges her with the dinner, and she nods before she accepts it.

They lapse in silence afterwards (what do you _say_ in a cemetery anyway?) until she points out to a dot far away and says, "I used to go by here. Every summer. Every chance I could. Walk right through here, up to a little store that used to sell candies. The owner knows me. Doesn't like me very much," she shrugs, "But he knows me."

"Why doesn't he like you?"

"I'm not very likeable," she says with a sourly smile, eyes waning under the twinkling stars and heavy nightfall. "Even as a child. Too skinny, too dirty." She shrugs again, shaking her head. The expression she displays doesn't tell more than she needs, he judges, but it's enough to know just how ruthless the truth is running in it. "So much that's not right, they say. I don't know," she shakes her head, clenching her jaw.

He wants to say he's _sorry_ to hear that, he really is, because that's what he's supposed to do; because that's appropriate; because _goddammit_, they work together, sure, but Steve's allowed to keep his little secrets all to himself too by the end of the day; but that doesn't happen. No. He looks at the ground and looks at her and says, "I'm not... I'm not very likeable either, growing up." Because maybe it's the cemetery, maybe it's the wind; maybe it's suddenly the time where everybody spills their truth and it's his turn to share his- Steve doesn't know.

But he's sharing it. "Too sick, too small. Bucky used to flick his finger at my shoulder and it'll bruise."

She gives him a look that says she doesn't believe it, and she shouldn't, maybe, and he grins, a little, because, "It's true." He nods his head, picks a small piece of chicken with his thumb. "Embarrassingly so, but."

He shrugs a shoulder. _It's true_.

"I'm sorry about Barnes," she tells finally, like it's what she's supposed to say all of this time since they've shook hands in the meeting room the first time he's assigned to be acclimated into the 21st Century. It's ridiculous. It's nuts.

It's not anything he doesn't hear before.

"Yeah, well. Isn't everyone always," he decides to respond before he could catch himself, tipping his shoulder in a way that he does when he's skinnier, shyer; when he's hiding behind Bucky every time a young pretty dame their age asks him for his name. "Bucky'll be fine. He's okay so far, so I just."

She looks at him, and her eyes are sharp.

She asks him if Bucky haunts him (-_constantly_-) and he jokes and says, _that's what ghosts are supposed to do_, but neither laugh because it hurts, she reminds him, and he knows, oh he _knows_, and they stand there for a while, just _stand_ there, because for a moment it's too painful to even move, to even breathe (he could see it, the difficulty, the sorrow, all so bare under the shudder of thin lips and cold eyes) before she carries them deeper into the cemetery, where the lights are dimmer and the grounds are messier.

Steve's heart twists when they finally stand over the grave; his chest squeezing tight against his lungs.

He looks at her.

"It's my mother's." She swallows, fixing her hands solidly inside the pockets of her coat, eyes harsh on the dead ground under their feet, to the stone that bears a familiar, forgotten name. He doesn't know about this, his mind blares. He _shouldn't_.

"It's her birthday today." She says, crouching down and plastering her fingers against the engraving; against the slope of every letter, the curl at the end of an 'L' or an 'R'. "Hey mom," she says slowly, he hears, closing her eyes when her hand lands on _beloved mother _engraved on the stone. "I brought a friend today. He's older than you."

He kind of smiles at that. Kind of.

His gaze lands heavily on her just as she swipes more twigs and leaves out of the way, clearing the grave out. He reads the date, feels something stabs within his ribcage just as his mind recalls something Clint'd mentioned years ago, when he's still getting used to everyone and everything on SHIELD. (Steve can't actually pin-point what, but there was _something_.)

She's exhaling now, more out of relief than grief. "Happy birthday okay, mom?" She whispers again, gathers herself and brushes any fallen hair away from her face.

"She's your ghost." He whispers aloud when she stands up, not really meaning to.

Her silver eyes run over his face, but she's not glaring. Which is good. "Everybody has their ghosts, Steve. Demons they're fighting against." She says more calmer than he anticipates her to, and he takes it, because he can and he will. "Mine are both dead and alive. Yours are out there somewhere, doing God knows what. It's a strange world."

She ends, blinking at him, blowing out air from her mouth. And he stares, because that's all he could do he realises.

She smiles, after a while. A little, beckoning. "C'mon, let's get out of here."

And slowly, they do.


	3. Us Against the World

**so they're connected to one another? idk**.

...

**day three; _us against the world by coldplay_**.

All and all, the weather's pretty pleasant today.

It's hard deciding to focus solely on that, but that's what she does in the end. The heat is nearly unbearable, but Maria's felt worse - back pressed against the harsh ground, a sharp rock digging at her left shoulder and hip roughly, and her lip's busted. That's for sure. She could taste the blood.

Damn. It'll bruise. Everything will.

But her hand stays. Hurts like a bitch to move, to keep it steady. But it extends anyway, away from how it should've been kept close to her body, up to where his heart lied within his ribcage. And it's beating. Hard and quick, and sometimes, soft and slow (so dangerously, suddenly slow) - but it's there. He's alive.

"Steve." She hisses. "Wake up."

He doesn't.

They're soaked from the tip of their hair and up to their toes and she's shivering. (He's not. It's expected. He's superhuman, she's just, well, _human_.) And she can't estimate exactly where they are - too far deep from the town, deeper than they should've been - but if they (she) don't see it to their injuries soon, things definitely won't get better. That, she can confirm.

"Steve," she tries pushing herself up, hissing as the rocks under them digs deeper into her skin, stabbing her right at her back and grunts. It's supposed to be a business _trip_. (With a side kind of _vacation_-trip as well, as soon as the Avengers decided to hop on when Tony declared that Thailand's a pretty secluded place to get away from, for a while, until of course, some bastard decided it's fun to blow stuff up and put a distance between the team. How freaking _fantastic_.)

She honestly doesn't know what _happened_. (Not in details, she doesn't. Like she said: it's supposed to be a business trip. For her and Pepper, that was. That's all.)

"Your lips are blue," he mumbles when she gets him to open his eyes, but he's still a little out of it due to the split at the side of his skull, gushing blood over yellowy-blond hair, painting over his lashes. He does not look good.

She smiles, a little, mounting her face near as she topples herself atop of him, pressing her palm harder against his chest - _keep it beating, Captain_ - and squints, "You're going to be fine, Cap. Just- hold on, okay?"

"Your lips are blue," he brushes his thumb over her lips, pressing his nail by the edge and she doesn't push the contact away. Can't. Not important. Whatever.

She's got more pressing matter to settle with.

A group of villagers find them thirty-six minutes later, half-dragging his body up to their little run-down, wooden house where the existence of electricity is minimum at best. They patch her up with a cloth to which she wraps her broken arm with and holds it, but she doesn't leave his side. Never. Can't Couldn't. Won't.

She speaks Thai about three hours later, picking up the basics at the very least, while an older woman tends to her wound and a few men leave Steve's body to sweat under the heat. (The only fan that's available are being used by a woman breastfeeding her child while a toddler snugs up on her, and Maria might be harsh, but she's not cruel.) So she sticks herself to his feet, just _stays_ there, and watches.

The medic they have is not the best, but they keep Steve's head from bleeding further and Maria learns to say her thanks properly. She smiles, a little, when the same woman gives them the water they need, and helps her chug it down Rogers' throat. He's resistant, but he's also half-conscious; so Maria doesn't stop when he chocks (only pauses to help him swallow) and knows how they both need to rehydrate.

"Husband," another woman points out repeatedly, as though fear she wouldn't understand it. "Rest. He, rest. Husband, sleep."

"Yes," Maria returns, smiles to reassure. "_Yes_." She adds in Thai, never bothers to correct them.

He wakes up in a daze when the sun goes down (the mosquitoes were a bitch), searching for a familiar figure when she ducks her own face lower, runs her hand over his bandaged scalp in an attempt to soothe him from doing anything drastic. "Hey. Rogers, you're fine. You're fine."

"Maria," he throatily calls out, blue eyes flicking nearly maniacally on her dirtied face. "We're - there was -"

"I know," she says, nods. "I know."

"We're-"

"Far away. Washed up. You got hurt." She's got him from stop moving then, but she doesn't pull herself away, even when she could feel his breath on her chin, his heated eyes staring her down. "We're okay. We're on good hands."

_Well, better than dead anyway_.

"Your arm-"

"It'll heal. I checked the wound. I checked yours too. We're gonna get that check up when we rendezvous with the others, okay? You still need some rest."

"I-" He winces then, releasing a loud hiss, attracting a few women to come by and hush about, in chatters of panic and words toppling over the others, and Maria explains that there's nothing to worry about. "My head-"

"Yeah. It's not good." She gazes at them, cups the injured area softly with her hand to let it land softly back against the ground, and unconsciously shushes him as she does. "There's a radio, I think. I'll release a signal. Tony'll pick it up, or whoever's left. I just need to make sure you're-" She pauses, looks back at him and swallows. "That you're looked after."

He doesn't scoff, but she knows he wants to. "It's just us?"

She nods, considers and exhales out, "Just us."

And then he smiles, a small smile, through the daze and mosquitoes' bites and dry blood smearing one side of his face, and breathes out, "Well, that's not the worst thing I've heard."

She offers him a half-smirk, just because. "Just get some rest, Rogers."

"Thank you, Maria."

"Rest." She orders, brushes off the thanks. She doesn't need them, not even from him. (It's her job, she likes to think. Always has been. Always will be, somehow.)

"Your lips are... they're-"

"I know," she says, pushes her palm against his chest (his heart) and squints when he lies his neck against the ground, eyes closing on the dazzling blue.

"Maria."

"I'll be here when you wake up." She tells, watches when he gives out one last genuine smile, toothy grin and all. "I'm not going anywhere."

"S'just us?" He slurs out, smiles a little bit more, like he's actually _glad_ that it's just the two of them. Weird.

"Rest, Steve." She tells, finally, and sees him nods off, before lolling his head back and taking an easy rhythm of breathing to doze off. She stares on ahead, sighs and leans back against the creaky, wooden wall, looks at the stars from the window they have and gazes back on him.

"Yeah." She says to nobody, relieved to see his chest rising steadily up and down. "I guess it's just us against the world tonight."

He never hears it.


	4. Last Call

**there's a ref to the last chapter in this one; take it as you've been informed**.

...

**day four; _last call_**.

"I'll go with Steve."

Steve doesn't glance down her way. He doesn't. But he hears it. And it rolls off naturally, the words, that he doesn't flinch. Doesn't hesitate. Doesn't find it out of the norm of anything. But he does look at Fury, sees the frown etching over his one eye.

"You're going with Barton."

"But sir-"

"That's an order." Fury growls without a hitch, shoulders squared together in a move that demands submission, and Steve doesn't need to take a moment to realise the twitch on the corner of her mouth isn't solely because she's annoyed.

"You're _not_ the boss of me anymore." She says through gritted teeth, posture just as equally commanding, jaw clenching as she hoists a handgun by her waist. "I'm going with Rogers."

"He's much better off with Wilson, and you know it."

"He needs-" She swallows, pauses and exhales. "They need back-up."

"They need you to stand on-guard while Barton rounds off the perimeter. You know what's the right choice here," this time, as Fury speaks, Steve takes the initiative on stepping closer, one hand extends to hover near her arm, but doesn't touch. She glances at him, silver eyes harsh, but doesn't say a word, turning to the older man in the room.

"He's still recovering and I-"

"Not in a good shape either." Fury cuts off and Steve once again takes note on the blood covering her pants, the bruise swelling up one side of her face. He knows it hurts when she moves her arm. She tries to keep it discreet, doesn't ever tell a soul for the past hours, but he learns the signs.

"Maria-" He starts, before she watches her hutches down, a little; young line of creases forming when she scrunches up her nose in agitation.

"It's not _safe_, Cap."

"It never is." He urges, keeping his volume low and calm. "You don't have to come with me. I can take care of myself."

"Right. Just like when we're stuck in Thailand."

He doesn't hesitate, but he lets a moment linger. What happened in Thailand is mostly a collection of hazy memory through a heated day, chattering locals and his brain pounding so hard in his head he thinks there's a remote chance it's going to explode. But he also remembers her, in the midst of white noises, standing guard of him, and making piece with the villagers as she tries to manoeuvre their way out of there while he lies there, resting helplessly to merely watch. (He gets up, sure, eventually, but that's only after they've argued for hours on it.) "Maria."

"I don't want you to-"

"I won't." He stares back into her, hardening the lines on his expression. Kind of like Bucky all over again, he briefly recalls, but just like Bucky again, he knows she means well. "I won't get myself killed."

"All of you are always getting yourself killed. It's in your DNA," she spares a glare towards the rest of the Avengers at the background, from Barton who's sleeping atop the boxes that were stacked together to Thor balancing his hammer on his palm with a half-tired grin.

"I'm a big boy, Hill."

She snorts. "Don't tell me you're a big boy. Tell me I'm not making the wrong decision."

"You don't have to take _care_ of me." It starts to annoy him then, but Steve maintains his cool. That's all he could do. She stares at him, for a long time.

"Okay." She nods once, affirming seriously and turns her back against him. Steve swallows.

"Maria-"

"Don't die," she bites out, and follows Fury out.

...

Somehow, through everything, he only hears her. Maybe because it's the shouting. And the cursing. (She curses a lot. That, he knows.) And she's going down, that's what she said. She says, they're going down. There's too many of them. She can't hold off. _And Barton_- she screams, and from Steve's side, Natasha pales, knowing that they'd lost contact with Hawkeye when the third explosion drops.

"I'm sure he's alright," Sam comforts with a squeeze to the Widow's forearm, but Steve presses the comm deeper into his hearing, felt his heart jumps to his throat.

There's a still silence for a minute. Just a minute. Maybe less than that, but the tension expands. Hours. Centuries. Infinities. Until she grunts, and the sound of her harsh breathing meeting the comm comes through. She's talking to Fury, nodding and swallowing he imagines, repeating, "Sir. Sir. Yes, sir. I will."

Before: "S-Steve?"

She pants, and Steve closes his eyes, ducks his head down. His throat dries up, and all that he could think of is her words of '_don't die_' playing on loop in his head, again and again and again, like a curse; he realises a second later on how he never said those words back to her, and how he should've have. _Should've have_.

"I can't move." She reports, slowly, keeping her voice steady even though he knows that she knows he could detect the whimper hidden at the back of her throat. "My legs are stuck. I can't-" She pauses and Steve hears his chest cracks, his head aches, "I'm _sorry_."

"Maria-"

"I'm glad it's my last call. Leaving you." She swallows, he knows, probably toppling her head back and groaning in the pain that must've eaten her leg alive. "I'm glad you're all safe."

He doesn't answer her.

"Tell Romanoff I'm sorry I've lost eye on Barton, but he's too stubborn to die so just lure him out with pizza or a sandwich. He'll show up." A pause. "He always does."

Natasha's eyes shone with tears, but it doesn't fall. "You're not _dying_, Hill."

"The place'll explode. Two minutes, tops. I'm too close to the source. And if I don't die from the explosion, the oxygen's..." She breathes in, harshly, "The oxygen level's dropping and the _smoke_-" She coughs, twice, nastily. "_Steve_." She finally voices out weakly and he quickly switches it to a private line, knowing they don't need extra ears to hear for this, although knowing Tony, the plan's not exactly bulletproof, "I can't move."

"Just..." He finds his voice, hand searches for his shield."_Stay_ there, alright. I'm coming. I'm coming for you."

"Fucking _don't_." She coughs. "Don't, Rogers. S'not worth it."

"Damn you, Maria. Who the hell decide your life's not worth it." He frowns, ducking his head down so Sam wouldn't see the tears that's glistening on his blue orbs. "I'm coming for you, end of discussion."

"The clock's running out on me, Cap." She tells, "Yours aren't; so, stand. Down."

"I'm not-" He purses his lips, pressing his fingers against his eyeballs. "I'm not going to just _leave_ you out there alone. I'm going to try."

She coughs again, heavier this time, and he winces, grabs hold of his shield. Sam's patting on his gears, nodding loyally when Steve searches for him. She hisses, "I'm _not_ alone."

He pauses.

"You're here, aren't you, Cap? We're talking right now."

"That's not-"

"Don't come for me. It's okay. Stand down." He hears she exhales, and he doesn't know what hurts worse. This conversation, or the fact he can't seem to move. At all. "It's okay," she repeats. "I'm okay."

"_Maria_-" His voice breaks, and Steve bites into his tongue.

"I'm glad it's my last call. I'm glad you're not dead."

"Maria-"

"Thank you, Cap."

The line dies.


	5. Hurricane

**yup. still in day four. don't ask me - idk what this thing is either**.

...

**day four; "_hurricane" by the hush sound_**.

He stays at her place.

One time. Twice. It's not personal. They don't do anything, most of the time he's there. She doesn't watch tv, he's too nose-deep into the books that he brings along with him. And she sleeps. A lot. She'd like to say that she doesn't know why he's there, but she does.

(Apparently, her heart stops beating for three seconds on the way to the hospital after her 43rd near death experience and suddenly it's a big deal.)

(Really. It's not. She's alive, isn't she? That should be enough.)

She gets tired a lot though. Her leg hurts, her back and side are healing from the burn, her lung wheezes uncontrollably when it's not supposed to and everything throbs. So, yeah. Sometimes, she really doesn't mind having an extra company around. And Rogers' a really good nurse when it comes down to it.

She doesn't know what makes her say it. Does it.

But she's realised this from the beginning: Rogers is something else entirely. It's the integrity, the principal, the sense of righteousness he carries with him. The tales Phil tells makes him sounds like a fairytale, a mighty American dream, and then he shows up, sashaying the shield around like it's nothing but paper airplanes and _goddammit, he's so much more_ and Maria doesn't know how to handle it.

(Mostly, she views him as more human than he is his shield, because that's easier. Because the bottom line is, they all _bleed_; because over time, she figures that there's a part of him that's thankful she does so.)

And he's handsome. So handsome with yellowy blond hair and pink-lipped grins and all-American blue eyes (they're so fucking blue, it's ridiculous) with gentle touches and soft words and she stops, considers and realises that he's standing there and preparing for a date. (A date? Seven o'clock, isn't it? With who? She doesn't know, doesn't remember when he was mentioning it. She's kind of dizzy.)

She sees him.

(And on that moment, he's the clearest thing she's ever seen in her entire life. More clearer than the time she clutches mom's old photograph and runs to the army. Clearer than Coulson's guarantees of a promising career, a brighter future when she's 21. Clearer than that moment she has to push the button down, setting all of her hard work into flames not too many years ago, nearly burning _him_ alive.)

She says, "You're the finest thing there is, Rogers," when he twirls the tie, hesitates to stand and go. She's lying on her bed, the finer side against the mattress and bunch of blankets lying, twisting, curling from her hip to her chest down to her feet, and he's just _standing_ there, looking gorgeously uncertain of everything.

Like a fucking normal human man.

(Sometimes she's so, _so_ glad he's more than his shield.)

He lies on her bed. She doesn't know how - maybe she's patted the empty side? - but she welcomes him when he hesitantly does so, picking his head carefully to lie it close to her, but never touches. His blue eyes flick, and slowly, beautifully, he breathes.

She tells, "I can't sleep."

"I know."

She's been restless for hours, but she closes her eyes when he checks in for the sake of keeping him from nagging and yapping about. (He does that. He's _such_ an old man.)

"You're in my head too much." She says some more, twirling the edge of her lip into a tired grin, wondering if she'd sounded as drowsy as she hears it in her head. (The medication generally sucks.)

He breathlessly chuckles out, and smiles, a little. "That's not a bad thing is it?"

She shakes her head as much as she could, hums. "No." She brushes a hair, bats her eyes once at him, says again: "You're the finest thing, Rogers. One of the best I've... had..." Her mouth dries up, and she closes her eyes, pinches at the bridge of her nose when a headache strikes up. "Fine. You're gonna be- _fine_."

"I'll stay with you 'till you fall asleep," it's not a question, she detects, and Maria frowns into the mattress, hushing out:

"No." She forces, "You have a- got a date. _Go_."

"It could wait." She hears him say, voice rumbling through the bed, jolting straight up to her spine. Weird. (Somehow she finds that those kind of things - feelings - would not be the a one-time-thing if it's _him_.) "Sleep, Maria."

And drowsily, she tosses and does.


	6. The First Snow & Snowfall

**the scarf _is_ referring to the sentimental value shared by mikasa (from 'attack on titan') and mako (legend of ****korra). this happens in between _day four: last call_ and _day four: hurricane_**.

...

**day five; _the first snow/snowfall_**.

The first snow drops, and she wakes up.

Finally.

(_Finally_.)

There's bruises on her face, blue and healing, and he ponders on the moment where he's seen her look better. (Really, he thinks, _anything_ is better than having her strapped to a hospital bed, body folded out of clean-cut flesh and piercingly broken bones.) Her last words to him still haunts him, even when her silver watch steal glances; even when his entire being vibrates on the fact she's still healthily breathing — _I'm glad it's my last call, I'm glad you're alive_ — but she doesn't say a word. A curt nod when it's needed, a shake of the head when she disagrees. But that's it.

It's kind of worrying.

(She looks at him like she's going to murder him though, to which he's torn on deciding if it's a really good thing —it means she's alertly alive enough to resent him— or a bad thing. —he _really_ doesn't want her to resent him— Steve isn't sure.)

But he stays when he could, help out where's necessary. Miss Pepper's taking extreme care of her, which is a relief, and the Avengers drop in to watch out. She doesn't say her thanks, they don't say you're welcome. That's not how it works. But she lets Natasha cuddles up next to her on bed and she doesn't comment when Clint switches the channels on the television twenty times over and over again until he's find a channel he's comfortable with, and she definitely does not fuss over when he allows himself to sit by the chair in the corner of her room and just _read_.

(He likes reading. It reminds him back in the days where he actually kind of feels superior to Bucky, not wholly in a bad way, since, well, Bucky can't read back then. It's the only thing in Steve's mind that Bucky can't really do.)

It's when the snow thickens outside that she starts talking. It starts when Pepper visits, Tony towing behind, readying a trip to Tennessee. ("Some business. Christmas drop-off. Let's just say I'm approaching Santa Claus Tony-slash-Iron Man style; not, of course, to sound like a brag, although free to note that I _am_ bragging.") Then Happy comes by to drop in any security intel of what's happened since they've been out, and JARVIS eventually makes an appearance through the tablet Natasha and Clint've packed along in her bag.

Going through the night is when she actually says _something_ to him. Directly. "You're cold."

He looks up from his book naturally — _Lies My Teacher Told Me_ — and hesitates. "No, I'm good." He tells, because it may be cold, but it's not anything he can't handle. He doesn't point out that she's _speaking_ to him, although he's really, really glad that she is, but gestures to the full jug instead. "Are you thirsty? Would you like some water?"

"No," she whispers it out, looks down somewhere far away, and then: "My back hurts. Everything hurts."

"Yes. Pietro manages to get you of there in time. You're lucky." Her glare doesn't entirely terrify him when he knows she's been told of that countless of times, marching up and pouring the water down a glass anyway. "I was so worried about you."

Her appearance suggests that she's shrugging, but he can't tell. "You care, it happens."

His grip on the glass tightens. Just a bit. "Am I not supposed to?"

"I never said that," she says out lamely, tone stoic, as though his slip-up on the tone comes nowhere near her acknowledgement. It makes him agitated, her like this, acting as though everything is pure facts and not more to it.

"You should drink up anyway," he ducks his head down and offers the glass to her; she accepts, nodding.

She doesn't say her thanks, he doesn't say you're welcome.

(It's how it has always been.)

"You died," he whispers again when she hands back the near empty glass, and he stares at what's left. "Your heart stops beating when we were rushing you to the hospital. Natasha keeps on..." He rushes in a quick breath, calming himself. Death happens. It happens all the time.

But that was too close, even Steve's got to admit. Too damn close, it scares him right to his core every time he thinks he hears Natasha's screams on Hill's lifeless body, yelling her to wake up.

"I'm glad you're safe," he tells her finally, forcing himself to send out a small smile. "I'm glad you're safe now."

She preps herself to sit higher on the bed and Steve doesn't tell her that her silver eyes were burning right to his very skin, but he doesn't walk away when she shifts her position, pulling up a fabric he doesn't see her keep. She waves the thing — a scarf, a _red_ scarf — until it goes over his shoulder, around his neck, and she tugs.

He looks at it, surprised.

"You're cold," she mentions again and pats the cloth, blinking up at him. "Keep it, it's yours." She nods, bringing her hands back to her laps. "It means I care too."

Steve smiles.

Maybe not saying thanks and you're welcome aren't a bad thing after all.

...

(A week later he helps her to her apartment, fixes her bed, dusts off her bookshelves and makes her tea. She doesn't order him away. He stays.)


	7. Secrets

**there's a time-skip like probs a year from the last chapter. and okay, is anybody even reading this? *raises one eyebrow curiously***

...

**day five; _secrets by _****_onerepublic_**.

She wakes him up in the middle of the night.

She knows he needs the sleep. He knows _she_ needs the sleep. Her head's too much right now, filled with things she swears she'll never say, up to the things she doesn't think she could possibly even remember back when it happens, and it's cold wherever they are, and for a moment she doesn't know what's going on, what's to happen, how do they get here. How does _she_ get here.

It's scary.

It's the terror, she blames. The terror of being tied up and beaten half to death and staring _him_ in the eyes with mouthful of oh-he-can't-know-this-not-yet's because as much as SHIELD's been stripped away from her (damn, damn HYDRA), right from her fingertips, the secrets remain. It's an oath she takes, a vow she swears she holds until her last, dying breath. And she hates it. Hates that there so much everybody deserve to know, but don't. Hates that _he's_ one of the everybody she's talking about. Hates that it's _her_ and it's _him_ and— wait a minute. How is that sentence even possible?

Her? Him? _And?_

(She lets this get too far. Whatever _this_ is.)

It's been months, she thinks. Years, when she rounds it off. She's kept mountains of secrets from each one of them. It shouldn't bother her. It _shouldn't_. She's trained to for these stuff: keep a straight face, lie without batting an eyelash. Too much that's happened for her not to be good at it. It's _easy_.

Until she stares death directly in the face and all that she could think about is how they're (_he's_) going to hate her for all the things she's supposed to say sooner.

(It's not supposed to matter, how he's going to hate her, or love her, or whatever. It's not. That's now how it works.)

But.

She says she'll tell him everything; everything he wants to hear. Just don't, she says. Don't hate her. Try not to. Because she knows deep down she could deal with one more person loathing her guts, but it's _him_. And she doesn't think she'll ever want to experience that. Not even a second.

(Like she said: she let this gets too far. He's messing with her principles, and it's _not good_.)

"Maria," he starts, and she could already feel her stomach clenches, because here it goes. Here it-

He hugs her.

Strong and warm and calloused fingers catching her before she stumbles. (The trembling lessens, she notes, when she sighs into the crook of the red scarf on his neck and his coat that's wrapped over his shoulder, closing her eyes pathetically at the contact.) He pulls away only to touch her jaw, looks straight into her eyes: "I won't—" he starts, looking sad even though he shouldn't be. He _shouldn't be_. "I'll never hate you." He tells, low and quiet, barely a murmur. "I mean," he shakes his head, "Not like that. I won't hate you like that. Ever."

Then he looks a little mad, like he's disappointed; eyebrows crooked together to support the frown. "You should know better."

(Sometimes it scares her how much she notices this stuff he's expressing through his face.)

"So you don't have to tell me anything if you're not supposed to," he brushes a gloved finger down the slope of her bottom lip, and she wonders if he's doing this purposely to see her breath catches in her throat. "I know how... _important_ these things are to you. I may not fully support it, whatever you're hiding, but." He shakes his head again, like that's supposed to explain what he couldn't finish.

She swallows, clenches her jaw.

"I won't hate you." He tells again, "And," he adds, "We'll cross that bridge when we come to it."

She nods, sniffles under the cold. "Okay," she whispers back.

"Okay," he tells her, and smiles.

Maybe today's not the day, not the moment. It's not right anyway. It'll be too rushed, too hasty, and she's too messed up under the bandages and fresh stitches. But one day she'll tell him everything.

And maybe one day, she thinks quite possibly, she actually will.


	8. Crossover

**because how do you expect me to watch supernatural and somehow not make it connected to the avengers**. _**really**_.

...

**day six; _crossover_**.

Steve doesn't like it.

He supposes he should just live with it— like it? Hate it? Who cares, really. Certainly not in this century— but it irks him anyway. What are their names again? Sam? Dean Winchester, is it? Probably.

Maria never lets them clarify anything as clearly.

She says, "They're here just the same as you are, Steve. Taking shelter. Play _nice_." Which is awkward, because Steve's never asked to _play_ nice - he's naturally _is_ nice, you know - leaving afterwards while mumbling under her breath, "Although I have no idea why you came over to _my_ safe house of all places, goddammit."

He notices that Maria's rather close to the younger brother.

He doesn't _know_ _why_.

You see, in all of the years that he's known Maria, she's never been particularly close to any male figure, excepting, well, _Clint_, but that's different. They've gone through similar hells together, that Steve learns. She, however, is much more comfortable around women (he's seen this of course, when she's around Miss Potts, and Natasha. It's rather nice to see her guard put down, her body more relaxed in their presence) but that's also because they're such a constant figure in her life that she's somewhat forced to be accept it.

But this _kid_.

He just shows out of nowhere and they're suddenly, what? Having a _picnic_ together? These are all very confusing. And he only shows up at the damn safe house because he remembers her redirecting it a year ago when he reaches out for help, though he didn't actually go _then_. He doesn't expect to see two men there when he comes knocking on the door. And her.

_Together_.

(Do you see the problem?)

"So _you're_ Captain America, huh?" Dean laughs when they're settling in the first time they're introduced, on his one hand is a knife, being cleaned. "Expected something... flashy. More blue and white and the, uh, the _star_." He chuckles again, a little goofily, meeting Steve's eyes as Sam comes forward, restraining an eye-roll it seems, of his older brother.

"Don't mind him. He secretly adores you." Sam gives a half-smile, polite. "I'm Sam. Uh, Winchester. This is my brother, Dean."

"Steve." Steve nods, taking his hand just as Maria steps in from behind Sam (_Winchester_ Sam), her one hand extending a towel towards them. "This is Sam. Wilson."

"Nice to meet you," Sam (_his_ Sam) says, grabbing the towel and mouthing a kind thank you towards the only woman in the room. Maria gives out a curt smile, then (VERY NOTICEABLY) squeezes Sam's (_Winchester_ Sam) shoulder - Winchester Sam gives out a small, acknowledging look and Maria mumbles something about dinner, later on having Winchester Sam excusing himself ("Right. Nice to meet you.") before following Maria into the kitchen.

That's how it starts.

It shouldn't bother him. It _shouldn't_.

But goddamn it does. It kinda does. A lot, too. He voices this out when he finally has her alone in the kitchen, doing the dishes. He offers to take over, but she refuses. She always refuses. He leans against the kitchen sink, or next to it, instead, looking at her. "Where did you find the Winchester brothers?"

"I didn't." Answers Maria directly, not batting a single eyelashes his way. This is normal. And this is what Steve will get. He knows this. "Fury did. He asked me to keep an eye."

"And you just follow his orders," he says a little harshly, fearing later that he might've crossed some sort of line when he realises what he'd just said. But Maria gives no indication that she's hurt by it, or effected at all. Just keep on washing the dishes as though he hadn't said a thing in the first place. _Classic Maria_, he guesses.

He sighs, decides to ask instead:

"Are they dangerous?"

"To you?" She's mocking him, a little, and Steve doesn't roll his eyes at the young smirk that's slowly gracing her face. "Probably not. But they're handy with their guns when they can be."

"What do they _do_, anyway?"

"Aren't you nosy, Rogers?" She asks him as she taps the sink and drains the water, washing her hands straightly afterwards. Her silver eyes watches him from the corner, but he avoids it, drinks up his beer. Her question repeats itself in his head: _aren't you nosy, Rogers_, and he nearly outrightly frowns. He is (nosy, that is), but like hell he's admitting it. "Don't worry. So far, they're the good guys. They're not killing us anytime soon."

She may be snorting, stealing his beer out of his hand and drinking it. (She does that. Apparently, they've crossed that line of friendship where she doesn't think twice at all into stealing his food or drinks. And it's not like he minds it, really. It tells him that he's in her trusted inner circle, and he likes being in it.) "I'd have their heads before they could even move if they were."

He wishes he could say he's glad to hear it.

When they finally have to go - the Winchesters, that is, not Sam and himself - Steve watches as Maria perches herself at the edge of the Impala, Dean and her exchanging hushed conversations. Sam joins them a second later; Dean pats her arm affectionately (almost) then goes; Sam talks for a bit, brushes his hair, nods, smiles (she smiles back, ugh) and dives for a hug. Surprisingly (and hurtful to his stomach), she hugs back. It really is awkward.

Sam (_his_ Sam) watches Steve with amusement, chuckling into his beer.

"She doesn't hug, you know." Steve tells him because it's important. "Maria doesn't-" He huffs, and Sam (once again, _his_ Sam) laughs some more.

"You aren't going with them?" Steve says when she finally climbs up the porch, the Impala now disappearing into the corner. She doesn't even look back.

"No." She says without missing a beat, stops, then looks at their surroundings. "They'll live without me."

"And you're okay with that?"

She looks annoyed. Maybe. "I'm not their fucking babysitters, Rogers."

He shrugs, mulls over his beer. "Okay."

She sighs, then looks at him. For a very long time. "Speaking of which," she finally drawls, "I'm not picking up Wilson's dirty clothes, Captain. He's _your_ boyfriend. Get down to it."

Steve chuckles, then grins up at her. "Well in any case," he bites his bottom lips, just for a second. "I'm glad I've got you all to myself now," he pales. Immediately. "I mean, I-"

"Adorable." She smirks.

Steve blushes. Horribly.

_God_, he's a trainwreck.

"Yeah," she surprisingly says when she turns, right before going inside. "Me too."

Steve only watches her go.


	9. Till the Casket Drops

**yea, i don't know either. also: it's such a good, appropriate song for them. check it out, if you have the time**.

...

**day six; _till the casket drops by zz ward_**.

It occurs to Maria that, far more than anything, she's loyal to Rogers more than she anticipates to. It doesn't stop even when he takes off the mask, picks up a normal hoodie and straps on a normal shoe. It comes to the point she nearly couldn't see where Captain America ends, and where Steve Rogers start. (Although of course she can. Of course she can.

Captain America would be the one to carry the shield and tell her to not disobey command; the one to be walking into the line of fire and sashay through every bullet like it's nothing but flies. Steve's gentler. Steve's the one who cooks for her and laughs at her stupid little remarks; the one that checks the newspaper for a new movie coming up before dinner and asks her about Clint's modern references from eight friggin' hours ago. Captain America is strong, made to fight a war; Steve is more human. Kind, unearthly young and beautifully awkward at times.)

It's the point of her loyalty, she means. Who is she loyal to, by the end of the day. The order of the Captain, or the gentle heart of Rogers?

She doesn't know.

At some moment later, she decides it doesn't matter.

Rogers is Rogers. And she likes him. Genuinely do so. His mentality on justice and what's truly right irks her (in a way that reminds her all of her minor, unacceptable faults that she has to carry everyday, some she even has to mask from him), but the world needs him. His strength, his morales, his _abilities_. This, Maria learns right from the moment Fury slides her the SSR files and tells her to study. (He's still on the Arctic at that time, their people working on defrosting him meticulously; Phil ringing her about every two hours to giggle.)

But what she doesn't realise is, watching his amused blue eyes search for hers and the way that he breathes a chuckle near her cheekbones while they're visiting a fair last week (Barton fucking insists), she might've need him just as much.

She likes him. That's been known. But to what extent?

(It scares her.)

((She doesn't draw lines anymore. Every time she tries, she ends up pulling the little dumb clown drawing that he draws for her about four? Five years ago? It's stupid.))

He asks her one night, his shield in place, her gun by her side, and she's biting her tongue from the pain of a bullet slicing one of her thigh just moments before (she knows he notices the wound; she's glad he's quiet about it though) and he may have attired himself with the good 'ol blue-red-white striped costume, but it's all Steve Rogers when his voice tumbles out. "Are you—" he breathes, "Are you sure, Maria? You don't have to—"

"Shut up, Rogers."

He doesn't shut up. Of course he doesn't.

Firmer now, his voice collects courage, carrying out his message in a more authoritative tone. "You don't have to come with me. You don't have to do this."

"Who's going to cover your ass then, Cap?" They both know Sam's where he needs to be, Clint too. If they're lucky, Rhodes might show up. Maria's praying that he does.

"Maria." He sighs, stops. "_Hill_." He gets confused with the appropriate title to call her now, even on the field. It's kind of funny. In a very obtuse way.

"I'm not going anywhere, Cap." She glares at her now, teeth grinding together and she tells herself her breath doesn't hitch when he slides one calloused hand to her thigh, gripping steadily on the bullet wound like a lifeline.

He's got a lot of nerve, she snorts in her head, rolling her eyes.

"You never do," he mutters under his breath, a small humourless grin hooks by his lips, and he exhales out, frustrated probably — _good_ — and Maria tries to wonder about anything else besides from his hand spreading unnecessary warmth throughout her entire body. "But 'till when? At what cost?"

She slits him another glare. Sharper now. Meaner.

Jesus, he's so stupid sometimes.

"How _dare_ you," she hisses, and his grip on her thigh tightens. Just a bit. His face growing serious. _Is he seriously questioning her loyalty?_ She wants to slap him. _Is he worried?_ "Fuck you, Steve."

"Maria."

"Till my casket fucking drops, you hear me?" She tells him agitatedly, fisting her fingers from curling it around her hair and pulling them out. "Till I can't fucking move, 'till I stop breathing." She huffs, "Is that enough of an answer for you?"

And the she imagines it: fighting _for_ him. _With_ him. She can do that. She can. She's good like that. And she's done it before. Multiple times.

And until he loses his damn mind and somehow turns his back against the nation (which she'll make sure he _doesn't_), she won't have any problem doing just that.

He stares at her for a long, lingering time; the atmosphere heavy in the air; her breathing comes in harsh, quick, unfocused. She wonders if he could hear it. She hasn't doubt that he could.

He's still gripping her thigh.

Ridiculous.

And then, moronically, he manages: "I don't want you to die."

_Out of all the things! Really?_ She doesn't say, and stares back at him. She doesn't point out how overwhelm it is to hear how much truth he drips into his words — how he _truly_ doesn't want her to die. It's kind of crazy, really, how he simply requests such a thing. In a world they're thrusted in, any of them could die just like _that_. She could die just this next second. Next hour. Tomorrow. Right now.

But.

She exhales out, nodding, treading the fingers now soaked with her blood, still plasters right against her thigh, with hers, catching the warmth.

_I don't want you to die_, he says.

"Then don't let me," she says back.

He nods his head.


	10. Shooting Star

...

He isn't surprised to see her standing there when midnight strikes.

It's rather worrying actually of how predictable he could be sometimes, though he doesn't like admitting to it. He knows someone would've found him eventually; he'd even readied a definite speech of "I'd rather be alone" just in case. But he doesn't deliver it when she slides her thin frame right up next to him, later on stretching her legs outwards in a careful manner, as though she will be touching shards of glasses with her boot-covered toes at the edge of the creaky rooftop.

He takes notice of the wrapped up leg that's next to his thigh, but doesn't comment ― and looks ahead.

The night is beautifully silent.

He's so glad at this moment that Maria Hill is not a talkative person.

His elbows are supported by the knees that he's kept close to his chest, and Steve ducks his head to inhale the air hovering around his collarbone. He doesn't mention about the burning lungs and the squeezing chest (it's like he's that little weak kid Bucky always save back in the dark alley, y'know?) and doesn't admit to the clattering of his teeth as the memory of blood and explosion and war and _oh God I can't take this dear Lord save me I beg of you_ tugs on the back of his skull.

For that one moment, Steve can't breathe.

As though on queue, he looks up and traces the constellation in his mind. Not that he knows a lot― but he reads some of it. He doesn't think much about the night sky since the whole Chitauri event, finding it more unsettling as it only reminds him of a portal to an endless list of even more extraordinary threats; but he doesn't deny of the beauty.

Something twinkles and sweeps across.

It takes a moment for him to realise the shape of it ―Bucky used to pull him up just to see these things sometimes, back when he's still that little punk that got into fights and Buck's the reckless kid nobody else seems to like― and he gapes at the sky in complete awe.

He doesn't even fully register that she's actually _there_ until he feels a pressure of her shoulder being pressed against his side and she's leaning in closer to whisper, "I think you're supposed to make a wish."

_That's right_, his mind reminds. A shooting star.

He manages up a quirky smile without meeting her eyes. His connected hands that are intertwine together in a lock in between his knees tighten, already drawing up the dreadfulness of the situation; the depression now clawing against his skin. He wonders if she notices. She must. She's trained to. "I never peg you to be superstitious."

"Oh," she snorts. "I'm not. But I thought you might be."

_Sometimes_, he doesn't answer back. Instead, he goes with: "I wish... I wish I'd just, _stop_ existing. Sometimes. It's just." He stops, and gnaws at his bottom lips. He doesn't exactly know why he said what he'd said, but it's out there.

Oh man, he really doesn't want to talk about this.

"I don't..." He tries covering it up, forcing out strings of choked-up laughter from his mouth. "I don't know. I just, I mean―" It takes him another second to register the silence she's treating him with. He looks at her as she stared ahead ―flat mouth, expressionless mask, dark eyes not exactly judging but it's calculating, she's _thinking_― and licks his lips, flicks his toes. "I don't... want to _die_, but... sometimes I just."

He stops then, and thinks about the possibility.

"It's... difficult."

She finally looks down, sorta hopelessly, dropping her shoulders down and easing off from any military stance she's known to keep up with. "It's not easy, no," she finally agrees, looks up again and he notices how the corner of her thin mouth twitches. It's pale, her lips, not as though he hasn't seen those in such condition before― but it's still baffling to realise that from times to times how these strong characters surrounding him are, by the end of the day, still pretty much human beings. Still pretty much look as ordinary and completely, earthly normal like the rest of the world.

She doesn't say anything more. Not for a while.

"Do you know Peter Pan?" He knows by now that the question doesn't really demand any answer, and lets her continue when she swipes a fallen dark hair away from her own face. "There's this quote. It goes: _to live would be an awfully big adventure_."

He waits for a second, then two.

"Is there a point?"

She narrows her eyes, but not accusingly. "Not really." A shrug, and then: "I figured it should be relevant, somewhat."

He stares at her, like he's always been doing he guesses, because there's always this enigma with Maria Hill that he still couldn't figure out wholly and it's honestly quite astonishing how she manages to continuously surprises him in every turn. It doesn't even matter if it's field-related or otherwise.

This time, her silver eyes catch his blue ones, and he's awestruck momentarily by the way it reflects the lack of light― like how it flickers and disappears and glints again. Like glitter, he's reminded. "For what it's worth, I'm personally glad you didn't get swallowed whole and disappear from the galaxy, Cap. It'd be a shame not to have you around. Barton really fancies you."

There's a smirk in her expression when she says the last sentences, which makes him smile. A little.

It doesn't shock him when the next thing he knows is that she's slipping her hand into his, even going it as far as tugging his wrist to make her intention evidently clear. She leans onto him even more, thudding the hollow of her cheek against the junction of his shoulder and he― he lets her. He doesn't exactly kiss the top of her head, but his lips brush whether she notices or not, and he doesn't complaint about the breach of personal space. Not as though this is the first time.

"What were you doing out here anyway?" He finally asks her gently, pressing his nose against her hair only once.

"I needed a smoke." She answers and he smiles to himself, but only a little. He knows by then that Maria Hill hasn't smoked since 2017; it could only mean one thing when she says that― she can't sleep. (It kinda makes him happy, you know, that he knows these little stuff about her. Especially things that nobody seem to notice but him.) He squeezes her hand lamely, as though secretly informing her that that's one lie she can't get pass him.

He's silent for a long time and the air of depression hangs over him like a curtain once again, before: "What do _you_ wish for, Maria?"

She smirks at that, maybe. "Sometimes I wish you'd just _smile_, Rogers. And that would've meant the world to me."


End file.
